


Disintegration

by doreah



Series: Echoes [1]
Category: Skins (UK)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Cross-Generational Friendship, F/F, Gen1/Gen2, Post-Series, multi-gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-24 08:50:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doreah/pseuds/doreah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Naomi is still struggling with herself, her bad habits and her barely mended relationship with Emily when news of Freddie's death forces her to face consequences and make some hard decisions. Post-S4.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disintegration

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The names of all characters contained here-in are the property of Skins, Company Pictures, & Channel4. No infringements of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission.
> 
>  
> 
> "When one's character begins to fall under  
> suspicion and disfavor, how swift, then,  
> is the work of disintegration and destruction."  
> \- Mark Twain

_The chains of habit are too weak to be felt until they are too strong to be broken._

At least that's what her mum said when she had attempted to quit smoking for the fourth, unsuccessful time. Naomi reckons she could have at least said it a little less dramatically. Like 'old habits die hard'. It was just as apt, but lacked that ridiculous flourish and flair that her mum had always possessed. She had said with conviction, as if a quote from some dead poet could justify her being caught sneaking a fag from her own daughter's pockets. The concept hadn't really concerned Naomi herself at the time. After all, her mum was often randomly quoting supposedly inspirational things that she overheard in that organic juice bar she was always banging on about. Mostly in some sort of attempt to seem like an in-touch mother-figure. (Course that would have been more easily accomplished by actually sticking around instead of running off to London with that awkward, chubby wanker she had a  _thing_ (as she put it) with once.)

But now, Naomi stirs from a disappointingly fitful sleep, glances over at the redhead snoring softly beside her, quietly slips from the bedroom and realises that occasionally her mum (or more likely, the source of her mum's wisdom: that gay guy who winked too much when handing over her smoothies) is right. It's unconscious almost. Like tying shoes or riding a bicycle. Bad habits penetrate absolutely everything about her existence now and she isn't sure exactly how, or  _if_ , she can break them.

It's not with pride that she immediately pulls out a half-empty bottle of vodka from the fridge instead of eggs and cheese. Honestly, it isn't even until the glass is sitting there, fully prepared with orange juice that she realises what she's done. Again.

But it's not like she's an alcoholic or anything. Everyone has their way to cope with things and under the constant barrage of Emily's silent rage over the last year, she had needed numbing. A coping mechanism. Cook has mindless sex and violence. Effy has drugs. JJ, drugs of a different kind. Emily  _had_ … Mandy so Naomi figures she's allowed something too. What difference does it really make where it comes from? She knows however that there's only so far she can bend that truth until it breaks. Carrying on as she had done for the past year may just snap it.

It should be easy to push the glass aside, dump it down the sink but there's a tug she vaguely recognises and it overpowers sensibility. Instead, she opts to pull out a mostly-eaten loaf of bread from the cupboard to accompany her liquid breakfast. She promises herself that she'll make a proper breakfast as soon as Emily wakes, just like old times. After all, that had been a habit too. Making and eating breakfasts together in companionable silence, peppered with sneaky grins and fresh memories of the night previous.

Surely that will just return. It has to.

Of course, it would be helpful if they had anything to grin about this morning. Freddie's party for the absentee boy had been moderately eventful. In some ways it was fairly regular. The gang of them getting pissed up, Cook disappearing, and she waking up with not a clue how she got into bed.  _Brilliantly done, Naomi_. She remembers bits and pieces, like the rather affectionate show in Freddie's garden when she and Emily hadn't actually realised they were on display like a pair of endangered species in a zoo. She remembers the vodka, and the wine, and the shots. And Emily's hand in hers as they stumbled back to hers. (She remembers too that even despite the pretty bandage applied to the relationship, she had stuck for a moment on the realisation she still considered the house  _hers_  alone.) Then she vaguely sees a park maybe. Swing sets.

She glances down at her knees and sees an angry red blotch across one knee. There appears to be bits of gravel still stuck in the newly scabbed wound.  _Disgusting_. She can't remember how or when that happened. She's pretty sure she passed out first when they finally made it into bed. Doesn't really matter what happened cos she can't remember it anyway. And considering she's still dressed in her pants from last night and an old t-shirt, she guesses not a lot. The state of her bedroom this morning would suggest otherwise however. Emily's clothes, every piece she seemed to own, were strewn absolutely everywhere; on top of the wardrobe, over chairs, hanging off lamps and radiators. She has a fuzzy recollection of tossing it all around, laughing with Emily, and claiming it was time to unpack for good.

_Another brilliant idea._ It had seemed so clever at the time, she's sure. But in the harsh light of a new day, it had looked more like a bomb exploded and it seemed far too similar to the state her house had been in prior to her rather random epiphany not 24 hours ago. Ugly. Dishevelled. Falling apart.

She gulps down a mouthful of her drink, and fails to wince at what she knows should be burning. The smell fails to trigger the normal hangover response. It only strengthens her desire to crush down the headache she knows is waiting in the fuzzy, dark corners of her brain.

Suddenly, a pipe clanks loudly above her head and she recognises it as the hot water for the shower turning on and a wave of disappointment floods through her body. She sips again. It was supposed to change after last night, wasn't it? Emily was meant to come downstairs, take Naomi's hand (and maybe a slice of cold toast to eat on the way) and drag them back up the stairs to shower. That's how it had been when her mum was out of town during the summer, and still when college started before the incident on the fucking rooftop carpark and all Emily's incessant nosing about. It was what they did. It had been their morning habit. But no, this was altogether too familiar in the wrong way.

Naomi considers boiling some eggs, or actually putting the toast in. Maybe cracking open a can of baked beans. Instead, she sits and waits for the tell-tale 3 clangs of the pipes signalling the end of the shower above. The waiting, the anticipation is doing her head in, and she drinks again. It's easier now. But she's not sure what it is that is easier. The drinking or the waiting.

Eventually, and just as Naomi almost finishes her drink, Emily appears in the doorway, dressed casually in a t-shirt and a pair of Naomi's track bottoms. They're about a good foot too long and pile up around her tiny feet. Naomi wants to think it's adorable and a very good sign but the insecure look on Emily's face steals that potential happiness away. It's like the previous night had been nothing but a fucking tease of a dream. They merely stare at each other for a beat, each trying to decipher what the next move is supposed to be. It's heavy and awkward but Naomi breaks first, something else that had also become habit. She stands slowly and plucks the loaf off the countertop, pulling out two slices of whole wheat bread and popping them in the toaster. Emily relaxes visibly and falls into the empty seat at their sorry excuse for a kitchen table. As Naomi turns, she sees Emily's hand reach out for the near- empty glass. It looks just like orange juice of course. She opens her mouth to halt everything but the warning sticks under her tongue. It's too late anyway as Emily pulls the liquid in and her face immediately scrunches up at the strong taste. She swallows quickly, but her eyes almost immediately find the blue ones of the girl across the room from her. There's something incredibly sad there, Naomi thinks. And something accusatory around the edges. Like so many months before, all Naomi can feel is overwhelming guilt.

She lets out an uncomfortable laugh to ease the tension. "Didn't realise there was anything in my juice, and, why waste it, yeah?" It's so pathetic that Naomi can't believe the excuse actually made it past her sensibility barrier. That must have crumbled sometime in the last months as well.

Emily doesn't say a word. She just stares for a moment with that resigned kind of sorrow, the regret that is so familiar. She places the glass back down on the table far too carefully and slides out of her place at the table. But as Naomi thinks she going to walk away, instead she moves toward the toaster, shrugging her shoulders.

"You really need to get a new toaster. This takes bloody ages." She fiddles with the cord and waits.

Naomi's glad for the break in the tension. Then she realises that this is what they've become: ignoring problems, passing them over, dodging around tense situations in order to remain themselves, together.

She can suddenly taste the sour liquor on her tongue.

As they both wait impatiently for the toast to spring up, Emily won't look her in the eye anymore.

 

 

 

* * *

Emily's mobile has been beeping almost incessantly for the last hour and the younger girl is doing her best to ignore it. She and Naomi are a jumble of limbs and lips on the living room sofa, and have been for what seems like hours. Naomi can remember times when they'd do this for actual hours at a time, in her bed or the park, hidden behind that large shrub. It had felt different then. At least, not like it does now. It's kissing, and sucking and groping like it should be but something makes her think they're just stuck in first gear. It's frustrating that this isn't even working. She knows Emily feels it too cos her hands are a little too rough and the groans that occasionally surface are not what she's accustomed to.

They're bored, sometimes impatient. As if this is a chore rather than a reconnection.

Naomi wonders if it's because Emily's now used to Mandy instead. Maybe that's why it's awkward and they're fumbling around like they don't know each other. In the absence of the alcohol and adrenaline of the night before, it all feels flat, not to mention the headache that is pulsing in her temple as the bitter hangover is finally seeping in. Her heart isn't racing in the way she knows it should, in the way it used to beat furiously at even the simplest touch from Emily.

Fuck. They were better at this when they had been at each other's throats. It happened, more than once over the course of the year though even then, it had usually been fuelled heavily by pills or liquor or anger.

The mobile rings again. Naomi heaves herself up and away from the twin, wiping her mouth quickly with her shirt sleeve.

"Just answer it, please," she groans, rubbing fingers over her forehead, trying to massage away the threatening migraine. Emily stares for a moment, sighs in defeat and swings her legs to the floor and snatches the phone.

Naomi doesn't think there's much point in listening to the conversation but can't help it. Maybe this is just the intermission they need and then everything will be thrown magically back on track. She can hope.

Emily doesn't sound pleased with the person on the other end, only offering them dismissive grunts and impassive 'Yeah's... Until she finally snaps.

"Katie, for Christ sake! Why would I even care about that? If she's so concerned she can go hunt for him herself."

Naomi's interest is piqued and she shifts closer to Emily, toying with the hem of her white t-shirt in anattempt to cover up her curiousity.

There's another groan. "Fine." The redhead turns to her. "Has Cook called you since last night?"

Naomi's brow furrows in confusion, unsure what all this is about. "No. Why?"

Emily turns back and waves Naomi's question off as she continues. "No, she hasn't, okay?" There's a pause. "Then you go find him. Katie, honestly." She's getting exasperated and Naomi's pretty sure that they won't be making out again after this. "No, I'm not. You're just being too nosy. It's Cook. He's fucked off for months before, remember? I don't have time for this, seriously."

It's obvious now what they're discussing. She wants to pull Emily closer and give her a calming shoulder rub but they're still not back in that kind of comfort zone. Instead she walks over to the cabinet and pulls out a nearly empty bottle of scotch. She fucking hates scotch but pours a glass anyway before making her way to the kitchen to add ice. While she's there, she drains the remainder of the chilled vodka into her throat.

She holds out the scotch to Emily who has now made herself more comfortable on the couch, and is non-committally acknowledging Katie, obviously gearing up for a longer conversation than she had initially intended. Emily sips it as she listens and makes a face at the taste. Naomi sits at the other end of the sofa, and flicks on the television, careful not to have it too loud. Now this  _is_ familiar.

An hour later Emily is still on the phone. They had continued to argue for a bit about Cook apparently, then it had turned to completely banal things that Naomi had no interest in. Now it's something about her, she thinks. Emily's talking quieter and more cryptically. She considers leaving the room but the whole thing is bloody ridiculous. Who cares? She only half-paying attention until Emily speaks louder.

"Well, Effy can go fuck herself then."

It seems more harsh than necessary and Naomi wants to know what sparked such a response.

"Yeah, as if she can talk." A pause. "I don't care. It works for me. It works for  _us_." Who the "us" is isn't clear, and Naomi prods Emily's thigh repeatedly with her toe, trying to gain her attention. Without evena glance, Emily grabs the offending foot and grasps it tightly in her fist before shifting the phone to her shoulder and using her free hand to tickle the arch of Naomi's foot, a large smirk on her face and humming agreements into her mobile.

Bloody hell. This is it, this is what they had been trying to get back to and magically they'd managed, not with devout attention, but with Emily distracted by Katie sodding Fitch, of all people. A wide grin spreads across Naomi's face, and it has nothing to do with the twitching of Emily's fingers against her feet. (She's not very ticklish, to be honest.) This gentle, playful side of them was missing, and had been for so fucking long that it seemed almost completely new. Naomi scrambles out of reach and twists over on the sofa cushions quickly, resulting in tumbling off it onto the carpet near Emily's feet. The redhead gazes down at her girlfriend, biting her lip in an attempt not to laugh at the predicament.

"I have to go, Katie," she says quickly, sputtering a little as she holds in her amusement. "No, later. Bye." With three quick words the phonecall is forgotten.

Emily pounces.

 

 

 

* * *

When Gina comes home two days later, things are supposed to get better, back on track, back to how they were before she left Naomi to fuck up so magnificently in her absence. But nothing really does change. Naomi's waiting on the sofa in the living room, a glass of milk in one hand and a book in the other. Emily's out somewhere after Naomi had told her that her mum was meant to be coming home within the hour. She planted the excuse of not wanting to interrupt mother-daughter time but there was obviously another reason. Likely many reasons, all of which revolved around her mother's marvellous way of seeing right through the both of them. She hears her mum before she sees her, all the way up the path. She's huffing and chatting to someone, dragging what sounds like a dying buffalo behind her.

When the door unlatches, Gina calls out straight away. Naomi rises slowly, partly because she doesn't want to appear too eager, and partly because she's already scared what her mother will see in her. Gina pushes the largest suitcase known to modern man (and certainty bigger than the one she had left with) ahead of her, grunting with the effort until she spots Naomi peering at her curiously.

"Oh, sweetheart," she chimes, and opens her arms for a hug. Naomi steps almost hesitantly into the embrace and fights back unexpected tears as she feels the grip around her shoulders and the scent of her mum's perfume. "I've missed you so much." The words are said into Naomi's thankfully clean hair and the young girl loosens her hug, if only not to seem too needy of her mummy.

"Missed you too, mum," Naomi mumbles, trying to sound uncomfortable. She fails.

The older woman backs up, holding her daughter by the shoulders and giving her a hard once-over. The creases in her forehead thicken and her smile falters. "Are you ill? You look tired."

"I'm fine, mum." In truth, she's a bit offended by the suggestion.

"Good. I'm glad. We have so much to catch up on. Is Emily here?" Gina smiles as she looks over Naomi's shoulders, past her into the room.

For a brief moment, the question sparks fear deep inside her. Like it's too soon to talk about Emily, too jarring. She squashes it down, reminding herself that humans don't actually read minds and her mother is, for all intents and purposes, a human being. "She's out."

Gina shrugs nonchalantly. "Well, no bother then. Just you and me." She busies herself with something in her brand new and oversized hemp purse until she pulls out a wad of notes and hands Naomi 20 quid. The younger Campbell is confused until Gina continues.

"For dinner."

Naomi stutters briefly.

"Oh, I'm so sorry but I've got to dash. I'm meeting Dom at the juice bar. You know how it is," she mocks, making a weird face. "Everyone wants details, details."

" _I_ want details!" Naomi snaps. She doesn't really. There's only about 5% of her that gives a flying toss about her mother's antics during the last year, but it's supposed to be  _their_ time. Not her mum and Dom and the rest of the juice bar's patchouli-scented wankers' time. It's always the same routine with her mum. Running around with hippies and lie-abouts, useless sorts and never really paying attention where it's needed.

Naomi really wants to ask what's so hard about just being a family for once. Just for a few days. She thinks back to the time when she had a real family, with a mum and dad and Jessie, the hyperactive border collie that peed on everything in sight. Then she remembers how it felt to lose all that. Maybe that's why her mother doesn't want to act like they're a family anymore, why she pushes everything aside. It hurts too much when it falls apart, which, in all honesty, it's bound to do sooner or later. Everything does.

Gina hugs her daughter into her again for a few moments. "Of course you do, darling, but I'll be home a bit later. Plenty of time, yeah?" Naomi eyes her mum carrying an overnight bag as well. It's an odd choice of luggage for meeting up for coffee and an organic fucking smoothie.

"What's a bit later?" she asks sharply, frustrated.

Gina shrugs again, and grins. "A few days. But don't worry, I'm not far." The cow actually winks at her. That's it. It's just bloody ridiculous now. She's been home a total of 5 minutes and is just taking off again. "Mum!"

"Hmm?" She's too occupied shuffling things around in the front hall, likely to find some god-awful trinket for one of her weirdo friends. She doesn't even look up.

Naomi sighs. "Nothing." She really just wants to scream and pout and stomp her feet. She wants to beg for her mum to stay home and listen to her problems, fix them, if possible. But if not that, at least make a cup of tea in just that special way she does and kiss her on the forehead like she's a child again. "See you later," she says instead. Defeated. She can't admit it, especially not to her mother.

Gina smiles again, victorious in her search for what Naomi correctly predicted would be some tacky souvenir. She meets her daughter's eyes, "Great. Settled then. See you in a few, love."

Without a second glance, her mother is down the path and on her way. Naomi's suddenly glad that Emily's out for the afternoon. She almost makes it to close the front door before frustrated tears overflow onto her cheeks. Slamming the door with far more force than necessary, she wipes her sleeves roughly against her eyes and curses under her breath. God, she fucking misses her mum. The sodding bitch. Honestly, she's not sure if she can keep this all up on her own.

 

 

 

* * *

It's been five days since the shed party when it all goes to pot again.

Naomi's not sure how exactly, or even remotely why but she finds that it's not really too surprising anymore. All she knows is that they appear to be arguing about alcohol. Perhaps. It's probably about something else, something all sub-textual and ambiguous in Emily's words but any deeper meaning is completely lost on her. She blames the fuzzy feeling in her brain and the way her head is spinning even though she's sat on the sofa. It's softening the blow of her girlfriend's sharp tone however. That's always been the point, right?

Numbing.

Reaching out to the table, her fingers extend around the glass. Without warning there's a flash of red and the glass is knocked sideways, spills out onto the carpet and rolls underneath the table. Emily is stood there, grimacing. Naomi grasps at air dumbly for a second before peering at the spreading wet patch near her feet.

_Shit._  It's going to stain. She rises to grab a towel from the kitchen but a firm hand on her shoulder pushes her back into the cushions. Emily is still standing above her, staring down on her critically. She feels insignificant. Like an insect that Emily is about to squish under her toe any moment. There's a bit of bile that rises in the back of her throat and this time there's nothing to wash the taste away.

The frustrated redhead is speaking. The words are coming at her, but not registering. All she can see is the anger, the resentment, a kind of hopeless pleading.

"Emily, please!" Her voice booms out without her own permission and it stalls the tirade immediately.

She softens. "Please, just stop. For a second." It's worth a shot, she reckons, even if it doesn't last. The sudden silence is nice, blanketing over her, the truth somewhere outside of her little cocoon now. Emily seems similarly thankful for the respite. She lowers herself next to her girlfriend, and sighs. It's a long, sad sound. With the dip of the sofa, Naomi finds herself gravitating towards the smaller girl, just like always. They just keep crashing into each other. The blonde steadies herself by placing a hand on Emily's thigh, trying to push herself up slightly.

She swears to God that her hearts skips at the contact. Buggering hell. And then Emily's hand is in hers giving her a light squeeze, and suddenly more than anything else, she feels like crying. Honestly, just bawling and it fucking pisses her off cos she has no idea why. It's like some part of her knows that something is irreversibly damaged, can't be fixed, and it's all so frustrating and futile. But she can't stop prodding. She wonders if the irreparable thing is her. What used to anchor her is slowly ripping her apart now.

Tears burn at the edges of her eyes and she stifles a small sob by swallowing hard. She wills the saltwater to recede before she embarrasses herself even further. She's weak, a pathetic mess continually. Despite her resistance, even from the beginning, Emily still holds that power over her.

This isn't fucking right. This is supposed to be finished with. She's supposed to have stopped feeling full of shame and sadness and bitterness, and Emily, she's supposed to have forgiven and let go. She'd said she had, hadn't she? Nothing feels like it has changed though. She's pretty fucking certain no one likes the feeling of absolute futility.

"I need you to stop." Emily's voice is hoarse and strained when she finally speaks.

The realisation that she has no clue what Emily is referring to incites her stomach to spasm with nerves. She feels ill and can swear she's breaking out in a cold sweat, her head pounding now. Maybe that's just Emily breaking down more barriers. She knows she can't ask what she's supposed to stop doing, and there are far too many options. Fucking up just comes naturally these days.

Naomi opts to shake her head in silence but doesn't quite commit to the effort. Emily must sense this somehow.

"Please, Naoms." There is a tremble in her voice that spreads all the way to the fingers loosely gripping onto Naomi and the blonde shudders in an unconscious response.

She can't quite understand still. "I can't – I don't know how. Why does it even matter?" She's feeling some sort of misplaced anger. It very clear that she shouldn't be irritated, pissed off even with the conversation. Emily's only trying to do what's best. Right? Emily's clever, she gets things done, pushes them until they're perfect.

Or they crack and break.

That's just her way, her own habit. So, if she can have one, why can't Naomi?

"Why does it matter?" The other girl's voice is totally incredulous, like she has literally heard the maddest thing in the entire universe. It makes Naomi feel fucking stupid, and somewhat humiliated. As if it's such a bloody ridiculous question that even a monkey could figure it out. Again, she's lost, swirling in a tidal pool of Emily's unspoken grudges and reasoning. "For fucks sake, Naoms. I don't believe you."

It's crumbling around her. She swears she can hear the crushing cascade of the coming avalanche. It's thundering down around her. "Figures," she mumbles, half-hoping that whatever chaos is in her head is equally loud inside her girlfriend's. Maybe if she doesn't speak up, it won't be heard.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Nope. Emily had heard the accusation loud and clear.

It's enough. She's had it. "What the hell so you think it means, Ems?" God, it feels good to yell. It silences the noise inside her. Deafening one sound with another. "You never believe me! You never have." She narrows her eyes. "Especially now."

A huff, a scoff. Emily actually rolls her eyes now. "Oh cos you've given me  _so_ much reason to trust you, yeah?"

"I'm trying!" Her cry is strangled, desperate but laced with venom. "Why can't you just let me try? Why can't you just accept it? You go on all the time about fucking chances and forgiveness and me breaking my bad habits and you just – you don't even see yours. Why can't  _you stop_ this time?"

"You hurt me!" Emily finally screams, as some sort of explanation. Or maybe just an excuse. Naomi's not sure which and for a moment she contemplates how to respond to something like that.

"So?" It's probably not the smartest thing to ask, and it's totally obvious that Emily is completely at a loss how to reply. She opens her mouth, eyes wide, but closes it promptly again. Her eyes glaze over in utter misunderstanding. After a moment, some glimmer of her well-practised righteousness seems to peek out under it all, rage boiling internally. And then it comes: the pure hatred on her face, the belief that Naomi is merely being a stubborn, flippant cunt  _again_. How wrong. Emily sputters slightly but can't seem to form any further words.

Naomi has been ready for this for too long and she's not about to let Emily's indignation and honestly terrifying demeanour back her into a corner yet again. She thinks about her mum, and what her mum would do cos that's the only role model she's ever had. Somehow making Emily a cup of tea and crying doesn't seem like the right move. After all, that's all Naomi had been doing for the past year. She suddenly sees her mum's brown eyes and how they glinted dangerously when she talked about Naomi's knobhead father. Naomi wants to look like  _that_.

Dangerous. Formidable.

Like Emily does now.

It isn't the first time she's wanted to be like Emily, but she hopes it's the last.

She just wishes she doesn't have to be the person who has to say her next words, but she knows she is.

"So what?" she asks again, her voice gaining strength. "You think you're the only fucking person in the world who's ever been hurt? Like it gives you some supreme right to go around fucking everything else up and making my life fucking hell?" She knows Emily won't look at her now. " _Hell,_ Emily. It's fucking  _torture_ to stay with you. But I'm the one being brave.  _You're_ the coward. It doesn't take courage to make everyone around you feel like shit." She knows she's on extremely thin ice now but there is nowhere to move except forward, sprint towards the solid shore. Emily sets her jaw, but it doesn't retract from the wobble there beforehand, or the glistening of unshed tears building in the corner of her eyes.

Holding her ground, Emily merely scowls at Naomi, refusing to react, refusing to argue. Refusing to fight.

Naomi's confidence has come and gone, evaporated under the silent, steady reprimand of Emily's stare. It's almost as if she could feel it slip away, passing between them, swirling, until finally drifting into nothing. If it wasn't so disappointing, Naomi may have thought it was kind of relaxing.

"You have  _no_ idea what it was like," Emily finally states, surprisingly cold and calm despite the weird glimmer in her eyes.

The comment is absolutely ludicrous. Like, completely mad. It's frustrating that Emily still doesn't seem to understand it at all; that being hurt doesn't make you special and doesn't give you a free pass to fuck everyone else around. And the fucking bit that would be laughable if not for it being so bloody ignorant, is that Emily has no fucking clue about her hurt. Naomi wonders really if she and Emily knew each other at all, even at their best. She wants to argue. She wants to remind Emily that not everyone had perfect middle-class childhoods like the Fitches, that her dad abandoned her when she was young, but old enough for it to cripple her completely for years. She wants to scream it in Emily's face about what pain really feels like, about the friends they know who have dealt with worse and yet still manage to either move on or forgive and how Emily is the stubborn, cowardly cow this time.

Instead, she glares. "Right." Her eyes seem to roll by themselves. "It's all about you, Ems." She curses herself for the waver in her voice, letting her weakness creep through despite the strength of her convictions. She hates this.  _Loathes_ it really. It may feel good momentarily to wound someone else but seeing Emily like this is never a pleasant reward.

Emily squares her shoulders and sucks in a sort of courage Naomi's never had. She scoffs in response and shakes her head in patronizing disapproval. There's no point reasoning with her now, and likely hasn't been one since her rational (yet strangely still Utopian) world crumbled back on that carpark and things no longer made sense anymore. The redhead turns and walks out of the room without another word.

They're right back where they were a year ago. Naomi looks down at the forgotten bottle beside the sofa. She swirls the vodka around briefly, considering something. It takes no time for the clear liquid to disappear. The burn doesn't slide down her throat; it seeps from her eyes. And Naomi doesn't remember it hurting this much before.

 

 

 

* * *

Emily's gone again. Naomi doesn't care where any longer. Doesn't care when she'll get home,  _if_ she comes home. The front door slammed long ago and the half moon's light has been piercing through the gaps in her bedroom curtains for fucking hours. It was stupid to think things could change so quickly, she knows. She knew it at Freddie's shed. She'd just proven it to herself now. Like an elastic band, time has just snapped right back again. She also knows it's equally pointless to ask Emily to pack her bags because one of them will give in at the last moment, and they fall back into the world of apologies and make-believe promises of "It'll be different this time." It never is, it's just pretend for as long as the charade lasts. Inevitably it will splinter, and on again the cycle will continue.

Naomi hopes that once her mum gets back, she'll have the strength to either sort this out for good, or let go completely. She feels herself on the very edge but unable to ever take that final step. Mums were supposed to be good at making you do the right thing. It worked in the past. Didn't it?

She turns over quickly, cursing the spinning in her head after just a few drinks. Obviously it hadn't been quite enough to knock her out. She pulls the duvet practically over her head in an attempt to block out the slivers of pre-dawn light, even though that wasn't really the problem. It's probably about 10 minutes later that she hears the door shut, the thump reverberating throughout the house. Maybe Emily will just crash on the sofa. That would certainly make things easier.

Instead she senses, rather than hears, the presence in the room. Purposely evenly out her breathing, she pretends to be asleep. It's sort of a surprise when Emily pulls back the duvet and crawls in, smelling strikingly not like cigarette smoke and Mandy's perfume. (Naomi had finally narrowed down the origin of that scent a week ago.) Emily just smells like trees and grass and rain. She feels like it too as Naomi flinches at the cold and damp fingers brushing against her exposed waist, rising gooseflesh meeting the redhead's fingertips. It feels like the hand of death until Emily's palm is pressed firmly into Naomi's abdomen, and she shifts herself up against the almost unresponsive body in front of her and Naomi wills her breathing to remain steady and not expose the shock she's feeling at this change of pace. This isn't  _them_ , this isn't how it had been for a year. This is a flush of memory.

She knows that this is the part where the reconciliation comes, and they start pretending to be okay again.

Emily still feels cool, like she had actually been outdoors all night and is chilled to the bone. Fucking great. There was no point resisting anymore. Naomi pushes back into the smaller girl's embrace, intertwining their fingers and pulling Emily's arm tighter. She feels a shaky breath tickle over her neck. Neither speaks. Emily doesn't offer any apologies that Naomi knows she doesn't mean anyway, and Naomi, for her part, pushes aside the resentment, for the time being. They'll simply revert to ignoring problems again. Their legs twirl together, Emily's incredibly cold feet seeking out the warmth of Naomi's, just like old times.

 

 

 

* * *

The next morning, she opens her eyes to Emily's gaze fixed determinedly on her. She sighs, yawns and then stretches before turning back to her girlfriend who remains seemingly unblinking.

"So how do we fix it then?" It's a tentative question. She's afraid of the answer.

There's a pause before an almost unrecognisable voice of her girlfriend whispers, "I don't know."

The words move inside her, slowly, like snakes slipping between the crevices of her broken heart and strangling the faint hope that she knows exists somewhere in the remnants of its weakened beat.

_I don't know._ That's all it really takes. Emily had always just  _known_. She had known everything before Naomi, leaving the older girl to catch up to every tit bit of knowledge, even about herself. But now?

Emily didn't know. It isn't just the tired sigh of so many times before, like when she had just had enough arguing and wanted to end the conversation. No, this is different. This sounds honest. And if Emily doesn't know, than Naomi certainly has no fucking clue. She feels helpless, scrambling inside her own mind for something more concrete, a feeling even. Just anything that lets her know there is something left for them.

She comes up empty and it the realisation stings. She lacks the desire to even lie, to flounder and fight hopelessly for something. She looks at Emily's lips... and feels nothing. It's like liquor, really. She's lost the ability to even taste it, to remember why she indulges to begin with (though the mere speckle of thought gives her the urge to run downstairs and pour a drink immediately. She calms herself by making a promise to do that as soon as this discussion is over.) A part of her mind screams that it's not true. There's no fucking way in hell that after all this shit, the feeling has just vanished. Like it was never really there to begin with. That's just bloody stupid. Lost the plot completely. Cos something had been there and it had ached and stung like hell but felt really fucking wonderful sometimes.

She looks at Emily again, harder, squinting. Her lips, her eyes, hair, breasts, that curve of her waist, everything. She reaches out, slides her fingertips down a smooth, slender arm. She ignores the flinch (will that ever cease?). There is no comfort however in holding that small, warm hand in hers. Not anymore. There's no ember of desire glowing deep within her body.

_Fuck._

Through all the ups and downs, the  _wanting_ (her one constant) had reminded her that she was alive.

Suddenly, with the realisation that the driving feeling no longer exists, she feels cold. Like a ghost.

No, this is not right. This isn't how it ends. Can't be. She won't let it.

She's spent the last year drifting aimlessly around, waiting, pretending. She doesn't want to act like a ghost, let alone be one, any longer.

"I love you." It's painfully honest. Brutally so, she thinks because it hurts a little too much and takes a little too much effort to get those words past her tongue, almost as if each syllable is attached to a piece of her heart and it tears as they escape. Maybe that's the strength of a lie instead.

Emily's smile glows only for a brief moment before fading again. Like she appreciates the attempt but isn't entirely convinced. A sort of darkness settles into her eyes, almost as if she can read Naomi's mind. It wouldn't be the first time she's debated Emily's telepathic abilities. The worry must cross over her features noticeably because Emily furrows her eyebrows momentarily and searches the face in front of her.

"Okay, yeah," she starts, then nods, and Naomi thinks that it's a really odd response to a declaration of love. "We can do it."

There's a disconnect somewhere again. It's short-circuiting the whole conversation and Naomi wants to wince because she can almost see the burning sparks flickering and jumping out, warning them of impending failure.

"We can fix it." Emily concludes finally, rolling onto her back. She lets out a long sigh. Naomi says nothing in response until, almost a whisper, Emily asks, "Right?"

In order to harness her resolve, Naomi doesn't answer immediately. "Yeah." It doesn't feel quite as forced as earlier. Momentarily forgetting her promise of distilled potatoes for breakfast, she smiles and curls around the girl in bed beside her. She may not feel the tug of want at the moment, but she wants to want again.

It seems like enough.

They don't really get a chance to even attempt to patch things up solidly. When the doorbell rings and Naomi answers it to a considerably dishevelled looking Katie, she immediately calls upstairs for Emily. Mascara stains strip Katie's face and she can't seem to actually form any words. A sob instead escapes. Naomi fears the worst obviously, and ushers the twin inside and onto the sofa. Emily comes stomping groggily down the steps and face to face with her distressed sister. Her face blanches at the sight. Walking slowly over, Naomi holds out her hand in support and realises it's shaking terribly. She snatches it back without thinking, opting instead to make a beeline into the kitchen.

When she returns, both girls are on the sofa, sitting silently.

"What  _is it_ , Katie?" Emily's voice is hardened with fear and frustration, but it trembles still. Naomi places the drinks down on the coffee table carefully. The whiff of vodka penetrates her nose even. After a quick sip, she perches carefully next to her girlfriend, waiting for Katie to stop sobbing and give them whatever terrible news is keeping her schtum.

"It's Freddie," Katie finally whimpers and Emily lets out a breathe that Naomi knows is relief. It would seem callous perhaps, but no doubt Emily expected her family to be involved. But as the initial wave of relief passes, dread settles over them both. The truth is sinking in, assumptions being made. Naomi feels a familiar choking sensation and Katie barely has to even say anything because they all know already.

"Cook's in jail."

It's shocking, terrifying, real. Freddie in trouble; Cook in prison.

No one says anything for a moment, before Emily hesitantly begins to speak. "Did Cook...?" She avoids Naomi's glare as the words come out, knowing exactly the accusatory death stare being shot in her direction.

"Emily." Naomi's voice is low and holds a tone of warning, irrational anger bubbling in her head with the insinuation. Instead of arguing, Emily glances over to her girlfriend and takes her hand instead. She squeezes it. It's grounding and the animosity evaporates.

"Freddie's dead, Ems."

It's a very strange sensation for a while in the living room. No one says anything, not a sound. It's possible no one is even breathing. Naomi isn't sure what to make of the news, as if it's not actually possible to be real. Katie is silently wiping the palm of her hands over her cheeks, smearing any remaining mascara even further. Emily's lips are pursed in thought and she's staring unblinking at a spot on the carpet. Neither of the girls can seem to process Katie's words yet. When no response emerges, Katie continues after a strangled hiccup.

"It's not Cook, you know. Effy rang. He rang Effy. His shoes. Her doctor..." At this point, the truth is like an 800 piece puzzle and they've only got the edges sorted out. And no one has the top of the box for reference.

"Please start making sense, Katie," Emily pleads, not angrily. Just fearfully.

Katie recounts a garbled version of the events to the best of her knowledge, which truthfully isn't much. Naomi wants to know which prison, but Katie doesn't know. Emily wants to know about Freddie, and she doesn't know the answer to those questions either. Effy was not exactly a talkative person at the best of times, let alone moments after the apparent murder of her boyfriend by a lunatic. Katie becomes frustrated and upset by the questions pestering her and breaks down again leaving Emily to huddle up beside her, breaking her grasp on Naomi's hand and replacing it with her sister's. Naomi stares at the exchange for a moment, feeling like a sad voyeur suddenly. She rises, triggering only a split-second acknowledgement from her girlfriend and rushes upstairs for her mobile.

Sitting on her bed, she speed-dials Effy's number. It goes to voicemail and she leaves a brief message, willing the tremolo of her voice to subside. She tries the Stonem household. It rings and rings, indefinitely. Searching through her outgoing call list, she finds an unnamed number. It was the number of the hospital from before. The nurse on the other end has no patients by the name of Elizabeth Stonem.

She sets her phone to vibrate, not wanting to miss a call from either Effy or Cook. It feels like she's stuck in the previous summer again, waiting on a call from Cook and Effy, letting them all rest easy knowing that they're safe. Naomi never did receive a word from Effy when she had run away, only when she had returned, and again only mere short text messages from Italy. And nothing from Cook.

Part of her hoped neither would return her call. Then she could just pretend they've run off together again. Partying, fucking, not in prison, not in despair, not with a dead best friend.

But pretending is useless, she knows that much for sure despite her almost professional skill. It never really works the way it's supposed to. So she worries instead, pulling a ¾-empty mickey of vodka from under the bed, and raising it to her lips.

Naomi can't be sure how long it's been by the time she hears two sets of tentative footsteps going down the corridor to the spare room. There is murmuring amongst it all, the sound of a door closing softly. She tosses the empty plastic bottle in her hand over into a corner, thoughtfully chewing on a piece of gum. The blonde is surprised when the floorboards creak again at the entrance. She turns to see Emily standing there, shaken and pale, tears welling up noticeably in her brown eyes.

"Naoms," she croaks weakly, a desperate pleading sort of sound that shatters Naomi inside and she knows this time exactly what Emily is thinking.

Everything seems to hit her then, full force. She stands abruptly and starts in the direction of the redhead. They meet halfway to the bed and Naomi's crushing kiss is enough to almost knock Emily off her feet. The twin grasps on to a loose t-shirt as Naomi's fingers almost claw at her scalp, securing them together, neither slipping. Emily's tears soak Naomi's thumbs, sliding down to her wrists and she pulls back, drawing a shuddering breath.

"If it was you, Ems..." she trails off, unable to finish the thought as if saying it aloud will tempt fate.

"I know." Her voice is so small and feeble, terrified really, mirroring everything that is coursing through the air. The despair, fear; the whys, hows, and what ifs. Emily is trembling when she reaches up and pulls Naomi's lips to hers again. The sparks are flying again, signalling a major malfunction or maybe a live connection; it's hard to tell anymore. But she feels every muscle under her fingertips, every shaky breath, every desperate attempt to reconnect. As the remaining clothes are shed on the floor, the snapping feeling of electricity sparks life again.

The want is back, perhaps in the worst way possible.

In the midst of it all, Naomi's phone vibrates futilely against the carpet under her bed just as Emily comes hard, and bursts into tears clinging tightly to Naomi's body.

 

 

> _1 missed call._
> 
> _Effy_

 

 

* * *

Effy hadn't left a message. It had just been exactly 1 minute of silence, down to the second. Naomi had listened to the message 3 times thinking maybe there had been a whisper in there somewhere. There wasn't, and the number rings through directly to voicemail this time. Emily takes the mobile from Naomi's hands and places it on the bedside table, out of reach before linking their fingers, and pulling Naomi back down. They lie in silence, Naomi tracing patterns on Emily's clavicle with studious attention. It doesn't take Emily long to fall asleep. Naomi can't. She still can't, even after everything and now especially with Freddie's death and Effy's peculiar avoidance hanging over her head. She's become accustomed to this routine. She counts each breath Emily takes for a while, her own breath catching in unfounded fear when the pattern breaks and Emily doesn't inhale on cue. She waits, and thinks, and yawns. Sleep takes forever to find her.

 

 

 

* * *

Gina walks through the door early on the morning of the funeral three days later. Naomi's already awake, half-drunk and sloppily making beans on toast for two. The older woman makes a beeline for the kitchen and stops abruptly, hovering in the doorway. Her daughter glances over briefly, barely even registering the new presence. A spoonful of baked beans slips and falls with a foul kind of squishy sound to the tiled flooring. Naomi merely stares at it for a moment before continuing on with her task. Gina steps over and takes a paper towel to wipe up the mess before standing quietly beside her daughter, waiting. But Naomi doesn't take the bait. She merely plops another spoonful of beans onto a piece of toast, then takes a swig from her glass, the aroma of cheap vodka swirling in the air between them.

"Naomi." It's a single word but said with such a mixture of compassion and disbelief that it causes the younger girl to momentarily pause. Gina takes the opportunity to slide the vodka from her daughter's reach and take over the task of preparing breakfast. Mutely, Naomi just stares at the countertop.

"I'll give you a lift to the funeral, okay, honey?"

A nod is all that Naomi can muster at the moment without feeling like she's going to crack into pieces. She watches as her cup of juice and alcohol is dumped into the sink by her mother. "You need to stop this." It's a statement. An easy statement said as casually as possible, as if it were really that simple.

Naomi wants to argue, but instead she presses her lips together tightly . They still quiver noticeably and a hot feeling begins to build up behind her eyelids. Fucking tears again.

"I'll help you, sweetheart." Her mother places the utensils down and turns, gathering a shaking Naomi into her arms. She kisses the top of her head softly. "I'm sorry." The admission causes Naomi's shoulders to hitch up and she squeezes her eyes shut to stop the tears before they escape. After a year, she's finally getting this from her mother. She didn't think actually leaving that message for her mum about Freddie's funeral would have actually changed things.

Quickly as it happens however, there's a cold breeze and Gina is back to serving up breakfast. "Now go upstairs and brush your teeth, wake Emily and come down for brekkie, 'kay?"

The rest of the morning passes mostly in silence. They try to make conversation, the three of them, but it fades out each time and eventually Gina gives up until it's time for the service.

It's fucking freezing in the cemetery. August is not supposed to be this cold. Naomi shivers and pulls Emily tighter against her side, their arms linked as if life itself depends on it, and maybe at this point it does. She glances around at the many faces of strangers huddled around this hole in the ground, in some morbid show of bleak pageantry that she still has yet to understand the meaning of. She doesn't recognise most of them and it hits her how little she actually knew about Freddie. The eulogy was almost like a cold shock because the information, the memories, the feelings were all things she didn't share. Almost as if Freddie was a totally different person than she knew, or pretended to know, at any rate. Now, Karen's sobbing. JJ's rocking back and forth on his heels, Lara by his side but looking rather overwhelmed by the experience. There's an empty space where Cook and Effy should be. Katie's on the other side of Emily, sniffling, but looking eerily immaculate with her waterproof make-up plastered on.

No one else she knows is here. There are a couple seemingly familiar faces from college, but she can't remember names and it's not like it matters anyway. Effy's absent even after repeated futile attempts to contact her. JJ's starts mumbling louder and becoming visibly more agitated as the minister continues. She glances down to see Emily watching JJ nervously and Naomi loosens her hold on the redhead. It's all the excuse Emily needs because she's floated over to JJ's side before Naomi even has a chance to blink.

She shouldn't be jealous. It's a goddamn funeral, for Christ's sake, for JJ's best mate. But she is. Jealous and hurt at being left to fend for herself again. Typically irrational. Before she has a chance to dwell too long, a cold hand slips into hers and Katie is standing there, staring ahead silently, but holding her hand all the same. Naomi realises the Emily had just ditched them both. Her anger evaporates and she squeezes slightly.

There's talking and movement and suddenly the wooden box is being lowered into the earth and Karen is crying hysterically and JJ looks as if he's about to claw his own eyes out, despite Emily's attempts to soothe him. Beside her, she can feel Katie shaking, and looks over to see her tears coming freely and her mascara no longer holding up to the barrage of salty water. Naomi just feels numb and cold, with a distant throb of a headache building behind her eyes. Completely and utterly frozen. She can't muster up any tears but she does unlock her fingers from Katie's and reaches out instead, pulling Katie closer. Her only thought is how different she feels than Emily.

It's kind of a blur perhaps but it's over and people are moving away slowly before Naomi realises.

Emily's on her mobile, frantically talking while grasping JJ tightly and Lara is no where to be seen.

Katie has moved away from the only comfort she'd been offered with a sad, tight smile towards the blonde. Naomi wonders why she's ashamed to be weak at a funeral for her ex-boyfriend. Without thinking, she turns and follows Katie around to the crematorium archway down the path. It's sheltered from the rain and offers some sort of respite.

Katie says nothing but lights up a fag with ease. Naomi's a little surprised considering she'd rarely ever seen Katie smoke, and nothing other than spliff. She offers it up to Naomi, who accepts hesitantly.

"Heard from Effy?" Katie's voice is hard. She sounds irritated.

Naomi thinks about the blank message and decides that's not really news. She blows out a steady stream of cigarette smoke that swirls around them. "No."

Katie scoffs, a sneer overcoming her features. "Figures. The stupid cow." She takes a much deeper drag and coughs slightly, patting her chest momentarily. Her demeanour doesn't change however. "I thought I was her friend, yeah? Took care of her for ages. Do you know what it was like to find her covered in blood in that manky old person loo?"

Naomi doesn't know, and she shakes her head. She pulls out her own cigarette as Katie seems to have stopped wanting to share hers, her finger joints nearly turning white around the cigarette.

"Dumps all this shit on me. Now she can't even fucking talk to me. What the fuck, yeah?"

"Yeah. It's shit." Naomi curses herself for not having anything better to add to the conversation. She watches the twin instead, noting how despite her angry words, she has a build-up of water in her eyes and her fingers are shaking as they balance her fag. For the first time, she's curious about Effy and Katie's relationship, whatever it was.

The brunette blows out a lungful of smoke. "She's not allowed to just disappear like this." This time there's no mistaking the resentment in Katie's voice, but there's something else there as well. It's a kind of deep concern.

The blonde nods in agreement as she watches Emily jog towards them, without JJ in tow. By the time she reaches Naomi's side, Katie is ready to snap.

"Have fun with the mong?"

Emily's face darkens even further than it already was. "Don't."

There's another loud scoff from the twin. "Right. Just run off and leave me alone there."

Emily shakes her head in disbelief. "Don't be such a selfish prick. It's JJ. You know? Freddie's _best mate_? Honestly, Katie."

Naomi wonders if Emily understands that Katie's behaviour isn't about JJ at all. If she does, she doesn't let it show. "I had to call his mum, by the way. I've never seen him that out of it. And Lara fucked off so what else was I supposed to do?"

Katie shrugs and flicks her cigarette into the wet grass. "Whatever." Yeah, it's official, and sort of shocking: Katie misses Effy. Naomi searches her girlfriend's face for a similar epiphany there but is greeted with nothing of the sort. Just a tired glare from one sister to another.

And truthfully, Naomi misses Effy too. She takes Emily's hand tightly and kisses her quickly. Anger evaporates into the air and the three girls walk down the road to where Gina is waiting.

 

 

 

* * *

She arrives home to find all her secret stashes of liquor empty. It seems like the worst time to decide to get sober and she curses her mother loudly as she slams the cabinet door shut. Gina enters the living room with two mugs of tea and offers one to Emily who is sitting on the settee, and stretches her arm to hand the other to her daughter. Naomi snatches it and settles resentfully beside Emily, taking a sip as her mother putters around, adjusting knick knacks. She pauses on a baby photo of Naomi and Emily shifts uncomfortably for some reason at the action.

"We'll fix it, love," she says to Naomi but it seems as if she's talking to the baby in the photograph instead. She places the frame down again and turns to the girls. "Emily told me everything."

Naomi wants to ask when the fuck Emily had the opportunity to spill all their secrets but realises it really wouldn't make much difference. The hot, ragged slice of betrayal is all that matters at the moment. She glares at Emily who meets her stare for a moment before turning back to her tea. She says nothing in her own defense. Gina notices the tension. "It's good, Naomi." It sounds almost persuasive, almost true. But it doesn't stop the sting. She doesn't know if it's because she's sober, but everything feels so much harsher, so much more real than before. Her body hurts all over; her heart aches far more.

The cushion shifts as Emily leans over, laying a soft kiss on Naomi's temple. She can't resist tilting towards those lips, and fidgets, tucking some of her loose hair behind her ear.

They all just want to fix it. Her mum, Emily, everyone. But Naomi's not sure what exactly they are trying to fix. Is it her? Is she so broken that everyone can see, and it will take a group effort to put the pieces back together? Is she now Effy Stonem? Debating the outcome, she wonders what would happen if she really did shatter as completely as Effy. Would anyone truly bother at that point, or would she be slapped with a "Lost Cause" sticker and left to slowly disappear, out of sight and mind in some nameless facility?

Maybe she'd rather not be fixed. Maybe some things are better left broken. Maybe they can't be put back together.

Then Emily's hand slips into hers, warm, reassuring. She offers her girlfriend a small smile, and promises she'll try, at least for Emily's sake if not her own. That doesn't make the prospect of doing so seem much easier though. Her thoughts continually flicker back to Effy and futility.

 

 

 

* * *

It's been about 42 hours since she's had a drink, and she feels strangely fine. Just more evidence that she wasn't an addict, didn't have a problem and everyone was just over-reacting. Regardless, she feels good about her accomplishment, and even more pleased about the sparkle in Emily's eyes. She'd forgotten that the numbing worked both ways: on the good and bad, and the good was slowly seeping back as well. But she's insanely restless. Goa is soon and she's yet to pack a thing. Emily's almost completely ready, and constantly pushing for Naomi to hurry up and do the same. They talk about it at the supper table every meal and Gina is constantly piping up with her own suggestions. Emily brushes over the fact that her parents won't be accompanying her to the airport since they're in Spain but she smiles at Gina and admits that it's all right because at least one mum is there.

But there's something else missing and it's nagging at Naomi constantly. It has nothing to do with the resistance to packing, or the deep down fear of going to Goa, because Naomi reminds herself that those things actually don't exist. She's just imagining them out of habit. Pure habit. She's gaining ground, catching up. But she's still checking her mobile like it's her new addiction. The texts she wants to see never come. There's no word from Cook, and despite both herself and Katie trying to track him down, they fail to figure out where he's being held. There are far too many prisons in England. It nags at her conscience, when she's lying awake at night, as if it's a responsibility that she has, and that's she failing amazingly at. But more than Cook, she thinks about Effy and her disappearance. There had been no time before the funeral to go round the Stonem's and check up on her. Katie mentioned going by once, but leaving soon after when there was no answer.

The listlessness inside Naomi propels her out of the house, to walk aimlessly while Emily is shopping for more gear for their holiday or out with Katie. She chooses different neighbourhoods each time, struggling to place inebriated memories and recall anything of value. Without really making a decision, she knows eventually where she'll end up.

Bristol seems foreign somehow as she walks up the road to Effy's house. It's grey and miserable like always, the people seem to be the same, everything looks the same, the buildings, the streets, the parks.

Yet nothing really feels... real. Like any moment, she'll be surrounded by cameras with some loudmouth American twat yelling about how he's taking the piss. Freddie will be there too, grinning and Cook will give him a high-five and they'll all be standing around laughing at her and her sodding miserable mess of a life. Because friends aren't supposed to just die, doctors aren't supposed to be mental, and everyone else is not allowed to just  _leave_. It's all some part of a cruel joke. Absolutely.

When she rounds the bend, her hopes fall. There is no television crew to mock her. No Cook. No Freddie. All she sees is more grey, and Effy Stonem's front door about 10 paces away, her front garden piled high with debris. The gate squeaks open and she surveys the large rubbish bins overflowing with broken objects and mess. A dismantled bed frame lies in pieces, providing a suitable sort of bench. Though everything is damp, it smells like smoke and burnt wood. Musky and abandoned. She rings the doorbell twice and is somewhat surprised at the absolute silence surrounding her. It's eerie and her skin starts to crawl. She glances quickly over her shoulder, paranoid about baseball bat-wielding psychopaths. The garden is still empty. She knocks this time, perhaps the buzzer is just broken, like everything else.

No sound, no movement. The sky has opened up again and a light drizzle is slowly coating everything in sight. Without really understanding why, she takes a seat on the pile of wood that was once Effy's bed. She can tell by the carvings of initials and filthy words in the headboard, some of which were done by her own hand. She traces her fingers over a ridiculous 'EF+NC' engraving. It had seemed cool at the time, sitting on Effy's bed, half in the bag with a pocket knife passing between the two of them. Effy had laughed, in a kind of maniacal way in retrospect, at Naomi's complete lack of creativity. She had then taken her cigarette and burned a spot on the lop-sided heart accompanying the letters, her laugh dying quickly. Of course, then just as randomly as that action, Effy had run off to Italy after a total of 3 days in Bristol.

Naomi lights her own cigarette this time, inhaling slowly, savouring it until it's burning hot enough then plunging it against the little "+" sign between the initials. She can't explain why, even to herself.

There's suddenly a creak of the heavy door and she glances up to see an unfamiliar boy shuffling into the garden. He's watching her, almost indifferently, as if it's a normal occurrence to see strangers loitering in the yard in the rain. His shaggy hair pokes out from under his cap and he offers a hesitant, confused sort of smile in greeting. Pulling out his earbuds, he steps down to the front walk.

She wonders if this is Tony Stonem. He's certainly nothing like she expected. While Katie Fitch may not have impeccable taste in boys, she had been quite adamant about how fit Effy's mental brother had been. This boy was not up to Katie's standards. He looked more the type to spend his days alone on the internet, not chatting up ladies. But then, Effy had mentioned only briefly that the accident had changed him. Honestly, Effy could have made everyone's lives a hell of a lot easier had she just divulged a little bit more. Then Naomi wouldn't be sat, in the wet, on a broken bed, waiting for a friend who may or may not ever be coming home as some strange boy struggled with something to say.

Clearing her throat, she attempts to get his attention. It works, sort of. He turns to her. "Hello."

Seriously? That's it? She nods, "Hi."

Appearing to change his mind, he turns back around, shoves a key back into the lock, fiddling with it unsuccessfully. He jams the key in a final time and gives it a good shake until the lock releases. The door opens and she resists the urge to lean forward and peer into the house. As he steps inside, he mumbles something that she can't make out.

"Pardon?"

He turns, finally out of the rain. "I said, are you waiting for something?" He pushes his glasses up with a finger before shaking the rain from his hair like a dog. Naomi sneers slightly.

"Yeah, Effy."

He shifts, obviously uncomfortable. "Uh yeah, right. She's not coming back." He shrugs, "You  _know_."

But Naomi doesn't know. She doesn't have a fucking clue what's going on and it's starting to piss her off. The rain starts to hit her with fat drops of cold water. This is bullshit. She stands and moves towards the doorway. She pushes her way past the boy who is barely taller than her. She could take him in a fight, she reckons. Her breath catches though as she enters front foyer. It's empty, almost. Some bottles litter the floor. A large crack has spidered across the wall. Stepping into the front room, there's nothing but a few more bottles, a chair, a half collapsed table and an old painting. It still smells like fire still, but she can't see any charred walls.

Turning to the boy again, she pins him with her best glare. "What are you doing here? Are you a squatter?" His hands are shoved in his jeans pockets, and he rocks back on his heels, almost impatiently.

He chuckles and slips the key out of his pocket. "Anthea asked me to help clear it out. Saw you sitting on Eff's bed and remembered something else."

Naomi seems to consider this news for a moment and just continues to look around slowly. He breaks the silence again. "You know Effy's been sectioned, yeah?"

The news shouldn't be surprising, and it shouldn't hurt as much as it does. The bitch could have at least mentioned that in her voicemail. It still didn't make any fucking sense though. She wants to ask him if he's fucking with her, but he's gone towards what used to be a familiar kitchen. There are some empty boxes that he picks up and makes his way towards the stairs. Naomi finally moves and follows, curious about the state of the rest of the house.

It's just as barren as the front hall. The stranger is placing a bunch of odds and ends into one of the boxes. A photoframe with no photo, some candles, little figurines that had been apparently thrown around the room. Effy's room echoes with each movement. A few floor pillows are stacked where her bed used to be. She softly pokes at a pair of Effy's old plimsolls with her toes, feeling uncomfortable to be standing in this room, empty as it is. Like someone is slowly erasing parts of her life, her memories one by one. Everyone was disappearing. Soon she'd be left with nothing but dreary, grey sky.

"I called the hospital," she offers to the stranger. "They said Effy wasn't there."

He turns around, almost like her had forgotten she was standing there. "Um, yeah. She's not in Bristol anymore. They've gone to London. Better resources or some bollocks." He sounds resentful for some reason. Naomi doesn't know who this is or why he would be upset about the Stonems moving. He seemed like just another neighbourhood kid. "But that's it, right? Everyone leaves in the end." He tosses a wooden elephant into the box with so much force that it bounces back out again and the trunk breaks off as it hits the floor. He kicks it towards the rubbish bin in the corner. Naomi eyes the broken item curiously, and as if he catches her gaze, he shrugs and speaks again.

"It's not like she'll miss it if she doesn't remember it existed." It's supposed to be a justification for his actions apparently, but the words seem heavy and layered with another meaning that Naomi can't grasp, like he's not really talking about the elephant at all.

She's curious now. "You're from Bristol?"

"Unfortunately," comes the grumbled reply. "You too, I'm guessing."

She nods and he lets out a short, disdainful chuckle. "Figures. Bloody lonely place." Without warning, he just drops the box to the ground. "Fuck it." He fishes in his pockets for a moment. "Spliff?" And without waiting for her reply, he falls onto the pillows and sparks his lighter, dragging slowly on the joint. She tentatively sits down beside him and he passes it to her silently. They don't say anything until the spliff is almost gone, content to merely exist in the empty space, wandering inside their own heads. Naomi shifts and catches a glimpse of something underneath the edge of the pillow. She fishes it out and sees it's a torn photograph of some other unfamiliar boy. The boy beside her glances over at it and lets out a derisive huff.

"Everyone leaves." He snatches it from her hands and tosses it away. "Mates, dads, girlfriends. Fucking everyone." She merely stares at him, squinting and trying to make sense of his meaning.

"You could too. I mean, like, go after them." She wants to push the subject, remind herself that it's not as hopeless as this boy seems to think it is.

He's staring at the opposite wall, blankly but a disbelieving half-smile creeps over his face. "Nah. Sometimes you can never catch up once they're gone. Doesn't matter."

"Why not?" She's curious how he can be so sure.

Shaking his head, he flicks ash off the joint before inhaling deeply, slowly exhaling, making her wait for a response. "Cos sometimes, by the time you catch up, if you do, you can't really remember who they were to begin with cos all the time it's been about catching up, yeah. Then other times, you can catch up to them, remember all that shit, chase them all over the fucking world, literally, but... I dunno. Your heart just lags behind and it never quite keeps up with how fast you're running. And theirs too. Or whatever. It's fucked either way."

"Deep," Naomi states, with a chuckle. He glances over at her and smiles, shaking his head. He offers her the remaining bud and she takes one last drag before squishing it out on the floorboards. "Some girl broke your heart then?"

He shrugs again, and she's beginning to think that he's got some sort of tick cos he sure does it a lot.

"Among other things."

She leans her head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. "Yeah, me too." The truth slips out before she can stop it. It was unexpected because, all this time, she had thought her heart was finally healing, almost better. But now, at this moment, it feels more broken than ever. Empty and cracked.

Even with the knowledge of Emily waiting at home, somehow it feels as if everything is slipping away, the truth hiding, lurking, somewhere just beyond her vision.

It's probably just the weed, she reminds herself. Yeah, it's just the drugs making her paranoid and stupid. But she can't help thinking about the boy's words about the heart never quite catching up even though it seems like everything else is on track.

He rises from the pillows and picks up the box again, throwing more items into it without much care.

"I'm used to getting left behind," he mumbles. His brown eyes meet hers, and she struck with some odd sense of connection, a sad camaraderie. (Just the drugs, she says again in her mind.) She bites her tongue before she can agree. Huffs instead, pretending to be bored, or annoyed. Whichever works.

Fucking wanker. What does he know anyway? Sad sack. She stands up too, her foot prickling with pins and needles.

The box is full and the room completely empty then. Naomi picks up the pillows under her arms and follows the boy down the stairs. He places the box on top of another near the door. She leans the pillows against the wall alongside them.

"I can give you the number for Effy's place in London," he suggests as they stand at the door. "But it's at home."

Naomi nods, unsure what he's trying to say until he pulls out his mobile. "Give me your number and I'll text you."

She recites it, feeling strange. It's the first time she's been asked for (and actually given) her number to any male in ages. Or any person, for that matter. "What's your name anyway?"

She can kind of see why he's so lonely. His awkward and almost blunt way of talking isn't exactly a charming trait. "Naomi." He nods and types it into his phone. He looks at her for a moment, and before she has the chance to ask, he extends his hand.

"Sid." She shakes his hand, the oddly formal gesture feeling out of place and he quickly busies himself with his phone again. Hers vibrates almost immediately afterwards. She plucks it from her bag and sees the new number.

"Just checking," he says, an almost embarrassed smile passing over his face. She clicks to save the number.

"Nice to meet you, Sid," she states. "Thanks for the, erm, drugs." She wants to say 'talk' but she reckons that makes her seem just as pathetic as he is.

"Anytime." A forced laugh comes out of his mouth.

She opens the door, grimacing at the weather, before turning back. "Text me that number, yeah?"

He nods again. "Yeah."

"Cool." She turns and leaves before it gets any more awkward. Effy's gate snaps closed behind her. The cool rain washes away some of the weird sense of gloomy connection she felt. She makes a note to ask Katie who the fuck Sid is.

 

 

 

* * *

At the time it happens, Naomi doesn't realise it's their last full-on fight. She had returned from Effy's hours ago, and received not one but three text messages from Sid with varying degrees of awkwardness. But now she has the number of the Stonem's flat in London now.

She's sitting in her bedroom when Emily enters. She's just ended a conversation with Anthea Stonem. It wasn't Effy, but it was close enough and the strain and fatigue in the other woman's voice somehow put Naomi more at ease than her own mum's forced cheerfulness and Emily's constant reassurance. There  _was_ a reason to be upset, to be struggling. It wasn't just in her own mind. Regardless, Anthea had seemed almost pleased to chat with someone who even remotely understood the situation.

There's no preamble beforehand, at least none that Naomi is aware of. She's sober and her head is pounding from the weight of her last conversation. Effy's not speaking again.  _Again_? Naomi's not sure she understands that comment but she only assumes it's a very bad sign. Meanwhile Emily is scowling about something and all Naomi desires is a warm bed and cuddly, quiet, happy girlfriend.

"Are you ever going to stop lying to me?" she asks, quite harshly. The accusation is not lost on Naomi, muddled as she may feel. Emily swings the bedroom door closed with a loud slam, and Naomi flinches so hard that she nearly slips off the edge of the bed.

"I don't know what you're going on about now, Ems, but can we just—."

"Just what? Leave it?" Emily interjects. Her lack of patience is already obvious. "Where were you this afternoon?"

Naomi runs a hand over her face and sighs. "Seriously, Em. Let it be."

But she knows better than to think, even to entertain the idea for a second, that Emily will ever just let it be anymore. She's broken the redhead's trust far too many times, and far too devastatingly to ever be afforded the benefit of the doubt again. And that knowledge disgusts her suddenly because they're not supposed to be like this anymore. Things are supposed to be fixed and better and not full of anger and mistrust. It's fucking bullshit, is what it is. She doesn't deserve to be treated like some ASBO twat. She's not on some sort of fucking probation.

"No, Naoms. I need to know. I'm worried about you."

Naomi shrugs, a familiar gesture, and stands, pulling down the duvet and sliding under the covers.

Emily's still standing, hands on hips, in the middle of the bedroom floor when Naomi reaches over and turns out the bedside lamp. She knows she's not making things any better for herself, but for some reason, she doesn't want to tell Emily. Partly because she shouldn't have to lay out her minute-by-minute activities and partly because she's not sure Emily would understand. This issue with Effy is her own to cope with; her own to handle. It's hers and no one else's. Maybe it's a remnant from being an only child that she still has a problem sharing what's hers but she doesn't really see the need to let Emily in on the problem this time.

She can hear Emily stomping around to the other side of the bed and the cold rush of air lets her know that she has company under the duvet. "Tell me, please, Naomi."

Naomi squeezes her eyes shut, willing the annoyance to go away. "Why? It's nothing."

"If it's nothing, why can't you tell me?" Emily always was a quick one. Her tone is making it crystal clear that Naomi's pathetic evasions are teetering precariously between irritating and downright infuriating.

"Just because, okay?" She's bloody tired of arguing all the time. "I wasn't at the fucking pub, if that's your damn problem." She clenches her eyes shut even tighter as if pure strength alone will catapult her into unconsciousness.

"Oh, because I'm concerned about you, it's suddenly the worst thing ever?"

Naomi tries to bury her face into the pillow but finds that breathing becomes too difficult that way. She concedes. "You're not worried. You're looking for something I've done wrong again so you can punish me. Don't you think we've both had enough? For Christ's sake, Ems."

A small hand snaps out and yanks Naomi onto her back, her eyes opening reluctantly to stare a darkened ceiling. Emily's there in a few more seconds, hovering above her. Even in the dark, Naomi can see the fight in her eyes. "You're so full of shit," she snarls, and Naomi is taken aback by the sound.

But something about the way Emily is over her, and that look in her eyes makes her feel less scared than she thinks she should be.

"You do this  _all_ the time to me, Naoms. It's  _killing_ me."

There it is. The breaking point. Emily's body instantly becomes less rigid with the admission, but she doesn't back away. Naomi wants to feel bad about this, wants to feel apologetic but she can't help but feel Emily brought it on herself. All these arguments, this resentment and tension, they're not her doing anymore. There is however, despite her attempts at the contrary, a niggling of guilt worming around in the recesses of her mind. Despite how it may appear, she doesn't enjoy having Emily so unhappy. She doesn't like not being trusted, or having these rows every week. She misses the days when all it took was a smile to inspire a similar one on Emily's face. Now everything is layered with justifications and explanations. Too many fucking words.

It's killing them  _both_.

It can't go on like this forever. She takes a deep breath."I just went for a walk, around Effy's neighbourhood."

Emily rolls onto her side then, relinquishing any physical control she had of the situation. "And?"

Naomi huffs. Of course it couldn't have been that easy. "And nothing. I went for a walk, then I came home."

"Did you see her?"

There had always been some sort of odd tension when Naomi spoke of Effy to Emily. She'd never been able to place the reason why, but it had already irritated her slightly. It's almost as if, maybe due to their friendship or Effy's track-record, Emily believes Effy will steal Naomi away. It's a ridiculous concept really, and Naomi does recognise her own tendency to run to Effy when things with Emily become complicated. But that's just friendship, she figures. Maybe if Emily didn't push, Naomi wouldn't run.

"No. She wasn't there." It's the truth.

"So you checked then." The accusation, whatever it means, strikes a chord of annoyance within the blonde.

Naomi withholds a sad chuckle as Emily's issues come to the forefront. "Yeah. Of course. She's  _our_ friend." Naomi makes sure to stress the word 'our'. It probably won't make a difference but it's worth a shot. Emily shakes her head, and Naomi's not sure if she's disagreeing with the observation or Naomi's actions anymore; always hiding, keeping secrets, even innocuous ones. Effy's friends really are dropping like flies. She winces inwardly at the thought. The redhead shuffles around, a defeated sort of posture obvious in her shoulders, even lying in bed. It kills Naomi a little bit too.

"Don't think I've forgotten, Naoms," Emily whispers, sounding fatigued. Naomi hopes this isn't about Sophia, or some weird issue with hanging out with Effy last summer. "You loved me since you were 12."

Oh.

"What does that even mean to you? You says things, Naomi. Say wonderful things to me when you need to but you never follow up. I just don't understand."

"I meant it," Naomi assures her, but it comes out a little less convincing than she had planned. "I mean it." She chooses not to remind Emily about the fact it's killing her.

"You said all those things. All the things you did, cos you were scared, cos you wanted to push me away. Why are you still scared? Why are you still pushing me away? I thought you were finally telling the truth."

"Ems..."

Emily sighs again, sinking further into the bedsheets. "Love changes people, yeah?" Naomi nods in affirmation. "That means I've been changing you for 6 years. Christ,  _what_  have I done?" Her voice is broken and lost. Emily runs a hand over her face. "What have  _you_ done?" It's horrible: the idea that maybe they've done this to each other, like they are each others' Frankensteins. It's supposed to make people better. Maybe this feeling she's always had of being torn was just Emily rearranging her parts. Like stripping her of her lungs when she couldn't breathe; zapping Naomi with electrodes to jump-start her brain; ripping out a piece of her own fiercely beating heart, sewing it to a piece of Naomi's soul. At this point, they're so tightly sutured to each other that even the smallest tear would cause unimaginable pain, she reckons. But they're so, so tangled... It needs to give for both of them.

As final fights go, it's pretty anti-climatic. For anyone else, and in fact for Naomi herself, it hardly seems like the kind of thing to end a relationship over. Merely a spat, the usual kind of disagreement that had pervaded their relationship for a year now.

Maybe that's entirely the point.

 

 

 

* * *

An hour later, they're fucking and the incident is pushed aside, like it can't hurt them. Like it never happened. Two hours later, in the middle of the night almost, Naomi finally begins packing her suitcase for Goa, as Emily watches, still naked in bed and smiling.

And so the pattern has repeated once more.

_The chains of habit are too weak to be felt until they are too strong to be broken._

But she needs to break  _something._

The airport is small, but busy. She's standing there, taking it all in, Emily's small hand nestled in her own. It's full, noisy, and people seem to be moving so bloody quickly that they're blurry. It's like time is going slower for her than the rest of the world, like in a film. But she knows better. This is much more likely to be an acute anxiety attack, but she doesn't feel too warm, her breathing is even and her heartbeat doesn't feel like it's about to thump itself to death against her sternum. She fingers the boarding pass she printed out at home. It feels damp. She lets Emily lead them both to the queue for Jet Airways.

She vaguely hears her mum behind them, pulling along her luggage. And Katie is yapping about something to Ems. Everyone seems excited, it's buzzing in the air around them, but it never quite soaks in like it should. This is Goa, for Christ's sake. Beach parties, relaxation, nothing but Emily for 4 months of absolute bliss.

"What are you doing?" Naomi suddenly asks, turning to Katie abruptly.

"Excuse me?" The mild offense in her tone makes Naomi almost roll her eyes.

"In the next few months. What are your plans?"

Emily shoots her a curious glance, but it's there. The doubt, the fear. It's like Emily's 6th sense has everything to do with expecting every move Naomi is about to make before she even knows it herself.

Naomi knows that right know Emily is talking herself into ignoring her instincts. They know each other so well it may actually be perverse, because, well, Emily's instincts are spot on. Always.

Katie shrugs nonchalantly, tossing her hair over her shoulder like she hasn't a care in the world, like things are just going to fall into place despite all their combined experience to the contrary. "Nothing specific worked out yet." She pauses, glances between her sister and Naomi and the pitch in her voice changes distinctly. "Why?" She knows too. She's suspicious.

The blonde turns her face from the twins' prying view. "Just wondering. Jesus." She grips the boarding pass tighter and feels it poke into her palm as it crunches up. Plastering a smile on her face, she turns back to Emily and quickly places a chaste kiss on her cheek as they walk. It's supposed to be reassuring, but maybe it's really just overcompensation. No, it's nice. It's nice. It's the way it's supposed to be.

The security check is just ahead, looming over the crowds like some metaphorical monster, but Naomi assumes it's just more of her imaginative overreaction to this entire situation. Her mobile vibrates insistently in her pocket and she stops, unlaces her hand from Emily's and fishes it out. There's a single text.

_I fucked up._

She finds it a little amusing that she has to double-check the sender because it really could have been any one of them.  _Effy Stonem_. About fucking time. A wave of relief passes from her head to her toes. It's warm and calming. But then something settles in its wake, a cold sort of heavy sickening feeling.

Katie is unaware, picking her nails in a decidedly unladylike way. Emily's eyes are darting every which direction around the airport, like she's trying to take it all in, like a puppy on its first day at the park. She's also blissfully unaware. Naomi prays for a good minute that Katie grabs for her mobile too, receiving some similar text from Effy.

Nothing happens and it just seems like they're randomly loitering in the foyer, for no particular reason. Perhaps it seems suspicious and any moment, burly security will tackle them and escort them outside, and bar them from the flight. There shouldn't be this much doubt; she shouldn't be constantly daydreaming of a way out of this holiday. That's not okay. She's not okay. She feels a need to stay, if not for herself, for Effy and Cook. But that's just fucking bonkers and she knows this too. She should go to Goa, but it just feels like she's running behind, grasping at Emily to try to keep up, hoping the love of her life will tug her along forever. But lately she's been running in place as Emily gets farther and farther away. It's not right. Chancing a look at her mum is a bad idea; she knows this as soon as it happens because her mum's eyes are already on her, studying, searching.

"Something wrong, sweetheart?" It's soft, and too knowing. Everyone knows too much. Everyone except her, it appears. She ignores her mum, her attention rapt on her girlfriend.

There's a long pause as Emily finally focuses on her girlfriend's face. It literally takes 4 seconds after that for everything to click into place. The redhead shakes her head slowly, and almost imperceptibly. Her eyes begin to water and the resulting guilt settles uncomfortably into a familiar place in Naomi's gut.

"Please." Emily says just that single word, but even that is too much to hear. She accompanies it with a stronger, more defiant shake of her head, as if pure will alone can alter the pre-decided path. It's fate perhaps, to break Emily's heart. It doesn't seem to matter how hard they both fight against it, it always ends up the same.

"Wait for me," Naomi tries, almost flailing for hope, fighting against inevitabilities. And it's a stupid request because that's all Emily had ever done: waited for Naomi to catch up.

"Will you love me, til then? Forever, Naomi?"

There's a pause that says more than any words could. Naomi wants to promise that, wants to scream affirmations of everlasting love. But reality holds her back, doubt, uncertainty. Truth. Instead, she remembers how she had been the first and only one to visit Effy in hospital the last time, until she had assured an uncharacteristically nervous Katie that Effy was actually all right to be seen; how Emily has support, of all kinds and Effy has barely a mother at most.  _Responsibilities_.  _Habits._ They're merely weak justifications for the action she's about to commit to. And aren't they really just the same thing? Things you must do. She purses her lips tightly and wills the quiver to subside. Her eyes sparkle with the birth of tears. They never escape but Emily sees it anyway.

She looks down, shakes her head slowly, a minuscule movement really. It causes Naomi's pressed sob to catch in her throat. They both know what's next.

"It's over?"

There's no reason for it to be a question. The answer is already clear. There will be no struggling to keep up any longer.

So Naomi runs the other way. It's just what she knows how to do.

 

 

 

* * *

After she leaves Emily at the airport with tears slowly burning trails down her cheeks and her chest so painfully constricted that it feels like crushing punishment, she knows immediately she can't stay. Not in Bristol. Not in her – no, their – flat. Not with her fucking mum who doesn't know what the fuck is happening. She runs, but not because she's scared this time. No. She's running towards something instead of away from it, even though it may not seem like. Even thoughshe feels twisted and tangled, turned upside down. There's something there. Maybe it's just a justification. Maybe not. She needs to save them both. The cycle has to end.

She keeps running, intent on a destination.

She needs to see Effy, sort it out; that's the  _great_ , selfless reason she abandoned the love of her short life in the airport. It suddenly seems far too impulsive and not that great after all. But she doesn't unpack her luggage. She scrapes the heel of her hands across her flushed and tear-strained cheeks and just insists that the taxi goes straight up the A38 instead of taking a right at Hereford, as she should. The driver drops her at Temple Meads instead. She gives him a hefty tip for the speed which he delivers her. She almost makes it to the ticket machine before her mobile rings, louder than she recalls it doing ever before, flashing her mother's number and she realises that she has 4 missed calls in the span of 20 minutes.

"What?"

There's some whinging about running away, being scared, not having to force things too quickly and all of it just goes in one ear and out the other. Naomi knows it's not about those things. Maybe it had been at one time; maybe a year ago such an insightful and motivational speech from her mother would have been helpful. Now it just rings hollow and redundant. This habit can't be broken, but at least she can break Emily's, even if it breaks them both in the process. Emily can move on, smarter, stronger. And Naomi knows she's broken, and she needs to be fixed. But in order to put things back together she has to break it all apart, into pieces.

Habits. People. There's no winning, just life. She doesn't have to worry about straggling along behind any longer. She knows she loves Emily too much. It sounds weak and clichéd, but she knows she has to let go before it kills them both. She feels like she just knows too much for her own good.

She impatiently interrupts the tirade and informs Gina that she's not coming home again, at least not for a while. She fingers the wad of bills in her pocket that had been meant for blissful, drunken nights in India as she speaks. The ticket machine prints out a one-way ticket to London, to Goldsmith's really. She insists that the university will take her, and comes clean about never really deferring the offer properly. She had decided on doing that from an internet café in Goa, probably. There's anger, a cold, quiet sort, that escapes from her mother's voice when she asks if she had ever really been planning on leaving the country. An indignant "Yes" echoes around her when she almost screams into her mobile.

Gina says nothing in response, just sighs in that resigned, almost disbelieving parental sort of way that let's Naomi now that she's the worst kind of disappointment. The call ends not long after that with a forced "I love you, sweetheart," and Naomi's non-committal reply.

For some reason, when the call ends, she wills it to ring again. But it's not her mum's number she wants to see.

 

 

 

* * *

The train rattles along through the English countryside.

> _I fucked up._

For what seems like a good ten minutes, she stares blankly at Effy's text that caused her to abandon Emily, and the good life she knew. Three simple words. Painful in their raw honesty. But not the three words that are supposed to decide a person's life-path. Dialling the callback number, she puts her mobile to her ear and waits.

The line opens. There's a pause and neither says a word. Naomi figures this is all part of the new Effy, or the old one. She can't decide. Doesn't seem to make a difference one way or another.

"I fucked up too," Naomi states, not bothering with pleasantries. She can hear Effy's breathing on the other end of the line. That's enough. "I fucked up well and proper, Eff." She wants to explain what happened. How she loved someone so much that she couldn't love them properly anymore; how it becomes too much. But that was all gibberish nonsense and likely wouldn't help mentalcase Effy sort things out any faster. The simple explanation would involve the tangible basics: leaving Ems at the airport, trying to shove her ticket into Katie's balled fists as she ignored the hatred that flowed from her face, ignoring her mum's disappointed and gutted yet pathetically oblivious stare. Her breath hitches instead, choking a sob out against her will.

"I didn't love him." Effy's voice cuts through the cacophony in her head. It's toneless, empty. Absent of everything, and she realises that Effy had never not felt anything despite her claims – not until now. Everything else had just been a ruse because she had never sounded as hollow she does now, like the words are echoing around inside an empty shell.

"Eff?"

Effy continues as if she's talking to herself. "Not properly. He died for me, like it all meant something important and I couldn't even love him like that. How fucked up is that? Well done, Elizabeth. Well fucking done, you useless slag."

"Effy. Stop it." There's a cold chuckle on the other end of the line and it sends chills straight through Naomi's body. "It's not your fault, you know that right?"

The chuckle grows louder but still just as vacant... until it abruptly stops. "Does it matter?"

There's a hint of disbelief in the tone of the question suggesting that Effy  _does_ consider it her fault, but it is ignored. Her actual question hangs in the air.  _Does it matter?_ Naomi doesn't know what matters and what doesn't anymore cos the whole world has gone completely tits up and things like love –real pure love- are thrown away while a pathetic loneliness and solitary existence seem to be taken up, again and again. Does anything matter? Naomi struggles for a response, even something placating, no matter how false. She opens her mouth and loses hold of whatever words she had planned to say. There's a click and the line goes dead before she replies. Just as well, maybe. She dabs the corners of her eyes with a tissue and sniffles, swallowing down what she knows is another sob.

The train lurches languidly and Naomi is struck with memories suddenly: of open days, betrayals, college excursions to London, summer breezes, picnics, and, strangely enough a feeling of lightness, of a heavy weight being lifted, or maybe just pushed aside for the time being. She knows better than to believe running will be any different this time. But if her problems never catch up, it can't be that bad. There are other people who have worse ones, and she knows she has to do what she can to help them. Dreams, illusions. Fanciful delusions. She grasps onto them as some sort of security for the upheaval she's about to send her life into. Scrolling through her contacts, past Sid and Freddie, Cook and Panda, her mum, her broken love Emily, she settles on the single solution. She presses talk and waits, letting out a nervous breath right before it connects.

"Hi, Ms. Stonem. It's Naomi again."

 

> 


End file.
